


What A Fire We Made

by Issers



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Coping, Death, Hurt, Mourning, Multi, lonelyness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-01-27 00:31:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21383137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Issers/pseuds/Issers
Summary: The people that a devil and demon had come to care for over the centuries.A summary of loss and regret, which ends with two immortals, drinking away their hurt and loneliness at the same bar.
Relationships: Aziraphale (Good Omens) & Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar, Crowley & Original Characters, Crowley (Good Omens) & Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), Lucifer Morningstar & Original Characters, aziraphale/Crowley (mentioned)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 65





	1. Marcellus - Crowley

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspiration: Plested - What A Fire We made.
> 
> "I didn't know it when I met ya  
But we were headed for the fall of our lives  
cause the day that I lose this  
Is a day I don't wanna find."
> 
> This is a direct product of my brain at a particularly dark state of mind. Updates will be inconsistent as this was neither planned nor thought through. 
> 
> Non-spellchecked/Beta'd - All mistakes are mine, and mine only.

Part one: Marcellus - 54 AD (Roman Empire)

He’d been bright; young, vibrant like the sun on a warm midsummer day. He had been born the day after Emperor Nero’s inauguration and died the day before Vesparian’s reign would begin. June 22, it had been. 

Crowley had never felt that way before, never felt the hollow cavity in his chest, the lump that seemed to form in his throat when he realized that he was gone. And not  _ just _ gone; somewhere he couldn’t follow. Because Marcellus had gone to Heaven, he knew that. The man,-- no boy, he wasn’t a man; not really. Not to Crowley. 25 years, that was just a blink in the Demon’s existence-- he had been good. 

As Crowley stared out of the window of his villa-- still vaguely expecting to hear Marcell’s cheery voice sound through the room as he would storm in-- he realized that there was no ignoring the feeling that haunted him. The kid had been like his own; born a farmer, abandoned at a young age, and despite Crowley being a demon and therefore pretending to be the epitome of evil he couldn’t just leave him there, lying in a field. He was barely just a toddler when he’d found him, maybe three years old at most. 

And now.. Now he was gone. The Demon knew this would happen; he just figured he had three or four more decades to come to terms with it. 

The letter the boy had written him had made him reluctantly reconcile with a younger, better self. Marcell had reminded him of himself before he had fallen-- or well, sauntered vaguely downwards-- and somehow that thought had made it hurt even more. The way that the boy had wanted the best for everyone until the bitter end was only emphasized by the selfless words that were hastily scribbled onto the scroll. It had three parts, written at different dates. 

_ To Crowley, who lives near the river in Rome. _

_ We made it to the battlefield. The armies in the east have surpassed our location and are supplying us with the next location, we should pass Milan by sunrise. I’ve lost friends; seen them die, their blood staining the floor bright red, but I’m determined to move on. I won’t let them win. How is home?  _

_ We’ve made it to the final destination. Our troops seem to have the upper hand, but at this time there’s no clear indication of who will be victorious. I want to go home; there’s no peace here. No glorious feeling of euphoria at the thought of dying for my country; no glamourous ideology as we were promised. I can’t wait to get back to the city. _

And then there was the last part, scribbled, barely even coherent.

_ I miss you. There’s nothing that compares to the way home used to feel, and even as I’m lying here, the only thing I can think of is you; how you rescued me when you knew that I would be nothing but a burden to your life. How you raised me, as though you were my own father, selfless and kind, and how I will never get to repay you for the life that you gave me. I’m dying. I know that. There’s too much blood; they told me that there was nothing they could do. I’m alone now, writing this; knowing it’s the last thing I will do. I love you fa- _

And that’s where the letter ended, a long line stretched out after the a, indicating that he did not have the strength to finish the word, although the unspoken meaning was evident. When the army returned they handed him the letter, telling him that he had died saving a fellow soldier, pushing them out of the path of an arrow, only to be stuck by the faith that he had just saved someone else from. 

Only now, a day later, he found that the treacherous tears slid down his face, melting away a harder facade, and in place revealing a sofer side that he had long banished. The boy had truly brought out the best in him, shown him that there were still things to cherish and love, even when it felt like there was nothing left. 

He bit his lip, dreading the fact that the-- no  _ his--  _ boy would never get to live to his true potential. And somehow even now, as he was crying he couldn’t even start to describe the depths of his pain.  Regardless of the amount of times that he convinced himself that Marcell was in a better place now he couldn’t find peace. It was selfish, really; that he wished that he was back here when there was no place better than Heaven. But home felt empty, even the ghost of his presence was still noticeable when he had been sent to war. Now it was gone; replaced with a cold emptiness.

One of the boy’s sketches was still laying on the table. Crowley had looked for it after he’d gotten the news. It was of the two of them together, the kid must have been no older than seventeen when he’d drawn it, he had always been quite artistic, both of their figures clearly distinctable despite being rough.

He was alone again, and at that moment he promised himself that he would never get attached to anyone like this again, that it had been nothing but a mistake. But even as he was trying to convince himself he knew that there was no way he would keep to it. Another person would take Marcellus’ place, and he’d love them unequivocally. And regardless of whatever may happen Marcell would be remembered for the rest of Crowley’s long, long life.

And so he sat in a chair, tear-stained eyes sliding up and down the long, detailed curls that the boy had drawn. He could barely recognize his own pose; the looseness and carefree stance that he apparently had was suddenly nowhere to be found, almost as though it hadn’t existed in the first place. 

He thought back at one particularly vivid memory, Marcellus had been younger. His hazel eyes had looked so bright that day. They’d gone to the riverside, he ran through the water, his short, dark-brown curls bouncing up and down as he let himself be carried away by the gentle current. 

There was nothing Crowley wished more than to go back to that time, to be carefree, holding onto his boy. 

But that time had passed, and he had to move on. Not that he could. Not for a long, long time, not until Ana would come along, to soothe the pain ever so slightly.


	2. Before You Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ana - Middle ages. 
> 
> Whoop, guess who's feeling down again and therefore picking up the most depressing fic I have ever started? Yep, you guessed it; it's me! 
> 
> The chapter title is Lewis Capaldi's 'Before you go' which is about his aunt's suicide, so albeit bleak I felt like it was fitting. Not that the character in this chapter commits suicide, but like, the thought of letting go or something? I don't really know. 
> 
> "So, before you go  
Was there something I could've said  
To make your heart beat better?  
If only I'd have known you had a storm to weather  
So, before you go  
Was there something I could've said  
To make it all stop hurting?"
> 
> Again, not beta'd or spellchecked.

The middle ages were cold. Even the sunlight seemed dimmed by the tragedy that surrounded everyone and everything. Death often seemed more prominent than life. For many this seemed to have taken a toll on their will to live; only their unfaltering religious beliefs stopped them from taking a shortcut- ending it all.

Ana wasn’t like that. Her joy and happiness radiated like a beacon of light and hope, unmatched by anyone else. Every Tuesday afternoon she could be found running to the fields right outside of the city walls, sneaking out to look at the flourishing flowers. Admiring the trees that stood by the riverbed. 

She was alone; her father had left to war when she was just an infant. Her mother had raised her. That was until two years ago, when disease had struck her and her siblings. The scars on her arms were still a bitter reminder of the loss that had left her broken for months. 

Tuesdays though; when she carelessly ran around the tall grass, she would feel free, happy. With the seasons that passed her grief seemed to falter. As she got older she learned to cherish the memories that she had got to experience with her family. Leaving the pain behind. 

She was ten when she was left on her own; fending for herself in the rough streets. It didn’t matter to her. She was agile and fast, and would always manage to find a warm and cosy spot to spend the nights. People seemed to sympathize with the young, dirty orphan, and she would usually have plenty of food to get by on. 

This particular day it was a cold Friday night; colder than any she had experienced before. The day had been rough, she didn’t have anything to eat and all the usual places she would stay seemed occupied by other homeless people, scurrying to find a warm spot. 

It was days like this that she feared, where she couldn’t assure that she would make it through the night. The cold gripped her exposed arms; painfully pulling on the old scars. Nights like these she remembered her family, missed the warmth and comfort that her sisters would offer. Missed the hugs and stories that her mother would tell her by the fireplace. The way she would recount the heroic deeds of her father. 

With a sigh she put her head down on the cold stone, curling up to keep herself as warm as she possibly could. She couldn’t sleep, not in the blistering cold. 

She closed her eyes, trying to ignore what she was feeling. She could feel steps approaching. She noticed someone sitting down next to her, but she refused to open her eyes. Usually such a thing was a bad sign. 

He didn’t seem to move on, so eventually she sat up to face the person next to her. It was a man; probably in his 40’s if she had to guess. He had long red hair and a pair of glasses that made it impossible to see his eyes. He seemed to notice that she had gotten up and turned towards her. 

“Are you all right?” he asked, seeming genuinely concerned. It felt odd. People usually couldn’t care less about her.

She shook her head. Figuring that lying wouldn’t do her any good either. Maybe the man would offer her some food, or if she was lucky a blanket. 

“Oh.” He said, his eyes sliding over her. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

She thought for a second, it had really been a while. “I would say three days sir.”

“Well, that won’t do.” He said, offering an arm to pull her up. Reluctantly she took it. She looked wary, rightfully so. 

“You don’t have to worry, I don’t mean any harm. How about we go get some food and you tell me why you’re lying on the street, all by yourself.” Crowley said.

Ana still eyed him suspiciously, but he seemed genuine, and she realized that food sounded heavenly. 

It was hours later that she’d finished telling him the whole story. By then she had realized that the strange man wasn’t a threat. So when he’d asked her if she wanted to spend the night in his spare room she eagerly accepted.

Crowley cared for her like the father she’d never known. He sent her to school, cooked her dinner and provided a home. He was always there to talk. She never felt alone or scared. He was the best parental figure anyone could ask for. 

The following two years would be the best of her life.

\--

She was gasping for air; her breathing becoming more periodic with the second. Her arm found his, her fingers loosely curling around his sleeve. 

She was using her last strength to reach out to him; pull him closer, albeit weakly. Her teary face met his as she sobbed through a faint smile. Everything hurt; or so she had exclaimed a few days prior. 

She let out a shuddering breath, her body shaking ever so slightly. She was pale; whiter than anyone should be. She had been sick for a few days and she was rapidly getting worse.   
Regardless of the number of times Crowley had tried to heal her, or miracle the illness away she wouldn’t get better. He tried and tried until he realized that there was truly nothing he could do. 

“I love you.” she whispered, as she had done dozens of times before drifting off to sleep. 

Without even thinking twice Crowley responded “Love you too sweetheart. I’ll see you tomorrow.” It was a reflex, really. Every night they repeated those words. It was an awfully domestic ritual. It was her scoff that pulled him back to reality. 

“Crowley, you and I both realize that there will be no tomorrow. You know that I’m--” she took a second to gather air, her lungs struggling through the sentence. Before she could go on Crowley put a hand on her hair, stroking it gently.

“I know.” he said, tears sliding down his cheeks. “I know darling.”

“Is it nice?” she asked, her tone pure in a way only a child could sound. “Heaven I mean.”

Crowley smiled “It’s beautiful.” His eyes drifted away, finding the ceiling. “It’s been ages since I last visited, but it’s like nothing you could have imagined. It’s beautiful.” He started drifting off, talking about the trees and the sky, but when he looked down her eyes had shut. 

He bit his lip, nodding slowly. “It’s beautiful, like you darling.” he whispered, pressing a final kiss to her forehead.  
\---  
Fourteen years, that’s how long she had lived. Just fourteen short years. Way too short for a bright soul such as hers. She’d get to enjoy heaven now, Crowley thought bitterly. She would enjoy it; be reunited with her family, get to spend every single day running through the grass, laughing, smiling. 

As much as he tried to reassure himself that it was okay; that he could move on, he kept coming back to the same conclusion. It wasn’t fair. She wasn’t supposed to go. 

He’d only just started teaching her how to cook. She never got to make use of that skill, he realized. It stung to think about how she had to fend for herself at such a young age, and only got to realize life as it was supposed to be lived for two years. 

He remembered Aziraphale coming into their house. He could vividly remember the Angel’s surprise when he saw the young girl sitting at the table. He had been adorable. He seemed awfully flustered. 

The angel had started to care for the girl as much as he did, although he quietly suspected that his visits to ‘check up on the girl’ weren’t solely for that purpose. 

He would have to tell him. He didn’t know if he could deal with the grief in the angel's eyes.

Every bit of the house reminded him of her, from the doors to the windows. The flowers she’d picked still stood on her bedside. She had always favoured the colourful ones, he thought. “The world is too bleak to pick the boring ones.” She’d once said. Crowley couldn’t agree more.

A knock came at the door, through teary eyes he reluctantly got up. Aziraphale stood there. A bouquet in his hand. One look at Crowley’s face had the flowers tumbling to the floor. He didn’t even have to say anything.

Aziraphale nodded, signalling that he understood, before moving forward and pulling Crowley into a hug. “Dear boy..” He whispered in the demon’s ear. “I’m so sorry.”

They sat there all night, remembering the time that they’d spend with the girl, and with the pain that every memory brought there was also a form of relief. He wasn’t alone; not anymore. They would go through this together.


End file.
